Thursday, November 1, 2012

This one looked like an easy mark, one where I could just duck in, copy and paste all the text, get out and make a post, continuing my "spree". The story's structure is superficially straightforward -- like the Zork gamebooks, it is just a brief chain of proceed-or-don't binary choices four links long. But unbeknownst to me, the text passages are dynamically generated -- a given telling of the story is brief, but as its ABOUT message reveals, "All in all there are over 780 possible stories that can occur." That makes re-presenting the game's complete content a stiffer proposition than I'd originally intended. Thus, here I present to you -- only a couple of Beal Street's curious possibilities.

This work of hyperfiction was submitted by author Ian Finley anonymously in the 1999 instalment of the annual r.a.i.f. IF competition, where it placed poorly -- 26th of 37 entries. (Another of his games that year, the more conventional Exhibition, placed 5th.) If you'd like to play it in its original programmatic glory, you can find a download link here and run it through a TADS interpreter. Apparently it was parodied the following year with "Life on GUE Street", a Zorkian "Fortress, Snowballs, Tangerine, Avocado" to its "A Story As You Like It" ... and perhaps lending future grist for the mill here.

. . .

Twilight on Beal Street

tadsr - A text-only TADS 2.5.14 Interpreter.Copyright (c) 1993, 2007 by Michael J. Roberts.Life on Beal StreetI highly suggest typing "About" if this is your first time playing this.

The little, invaluable self-deceptions we allow ourselves. Sometimes they're the only things that make life bearable. Tonight, for example, you're taking a walk on Beal Street beneath a cloudless summer sky. Not surprising; you walk down the hill through this neighborhood almost every night to enjoy the warm twilight. You've walked down this street, and dozens identical to it, countless times, reveling in the little details, taking an academic pleasure in noting how the whole architecture of the street seems to change to reflect your mood. The placement of a single beam of fading sunlight or the calibrated timing of a child's laugh, the most random of events, combine like a catalyst with your emotions such that the static street never appears quite the same. It is therefore completely plausible, you tell yourself repeatedly, that this is just another evening jaunt, that there's no special reason why you turned down this tiny lane rather than the next one. The fact that KC, the unjustly beautiful young person who you took to dinner last week, lives in the cozy bungalow just down the street is a mere coincidence, nothing more.

This is not a game. Terribly sorry, but you have to know the truth sometime. Well, I hear you asking, is it Interactive Fiction? That's trickier. Fiction yes, certainly, it's all about telling a story. Interactive? Yes... but to a limited degree.

It is my belief that we are influenced drastically by the thousand, minuscule, random events that occur each day. As they say, if a butterfly flaps its wings in China, the weather systems change in New York. The same applies on a much more personal scale. Our attitudes can range over a vast spectrum between hope and despair, joy and sadness, triggered by such inconsequential and unpredictable forces as your car not working or a bird singing at just the right moment. This piece demonstrates that.

The piece tells a story of a person walking down a street, but it is never the same twice. Random forces, like the ones we face in real life, change the story every time it is read. All in all there are over 780 possible stories that can occur. Some are completely different from the others, while some stories only differ from the rest by a single, crucial paragraph. But the stories are all created by the same random, often unseen happenings.

So where do you, the player, come into this? Just as in life, though unpredictable events around us may shape our existence, so too does personal choice. In this piece the protagonist is limited to one choice: to continue walking down the street or to turn back. Simple as this is, it is the key to the whole story, and one that lies completely in your hands as the player. Your may go forward, or you can turn back. And when you have reached the end of the street you can return to the beginning and see how the story is changed the next time through.

That's basically it as far as interaction. There are some additional commands you can enter; you can SAVE and RESTORE, UNDO, and, of course, QUIT. Also, if you reach a paragraph in the story that you have seen too often or simply dislike, you can type NO and will be offered an alternate interpretation of that moment. For once, you are given the god-like power to refuse reality in lieu of something else.

I'd like to extend my thanks to Lucian P. Smith, Marnie Parker, and the Imperturbable TenthStone, my wonderful testing group, as well as Mark J. Musante for his wonderful Choose-Your-Own-Adventure library. And finally, thanks to all my players; I hope you enjoy your walk on Beal Street.

The houses on this street are older; the steeply gabled cottages of the turn of the century, when the University at the top of the hill was still comparatively small, when people built here for the beautiful view of the city glistening below them. The houses have as much identity as the people within them, in some cases maybe even more. You spy a beautiful, pine-paneled library behind a rippled pane of ancient glass. It is comforting and easy to picture yourself in that library, decades in the future, with Auden and Tolstoy. You may be young yet, but your taste has always run to the mature. You feel, instinctively, that the wrinkles of age will fit you better than the blemishes of youth. You wonder about KC, and the date. Beautiful, certainly, and witty, and intelligent enough not just to keep up with you, but to outpace you. But that maturity was lacking, KC's tastes ran towards the juvenile. You shudder to think what the waiter must have thought when he saw the two of you balancing spoons on your noses, though you have to admit it was funny. You wonder why you're bothering to head towards the house now. Certainly, KC's nothing compared to Shawn. Then again, how could you compare anyone to Shawn?

At every step doubt begins to color your mind. It would hardly be decent of you to barge in on KC without even calling and to just walk by would do more to frustrate than satisfy. There will be other nights, when you are better prepared. You slowly turn and head down a side alley away from Beal Street. Who knows where it will take you?

Ah, Shawn. Body sculpted like some Renaissance wet dream, and with a heart as cold and stony as marble. Where KC may have a certain youthful, innocent charm, Shawn displayed the opposite attraction, the self-aware sensuousness of the long-lashed wink and the muscular thigh. You suppose it was foolish to ever expect anything lasting from someone that beautiful and that icy. It did surprise you, and it did hurt you to get that phone call last May–from Paris, collect, as if your then-lover was deliberately trying to add insult to injury–but, looking back, all in all, now that you've had a chance to think it through, and all the other cliches, you've decided you're glad that it's over. Shawn was a dead-end romantically, you're aware enough to see that now. The brain was there, and the body, and the sex–oh, God was the sex good–but you found it hard to believe that your lover was actually a person and not some esoteric concept or possession to consider and examine. At least the superficiality of the relationship was mutual. You showed off Shawn and Shawn showed off you, depending on whose friends were in the room. But eventually it became tiring being a trophy.

At every step doubt begins to color your mind. It would hardly be decent of you to barge in on KC without even calling and to just walk by would do more to frustrate than satisfy. There will be other nights, when you are better prepared. You slowly turn and head down a side alley away from Beal Street. Who knows where it will take you?

But why linger in the past? Good riddance to bad rubbish, as your venerable grandmother always said, and how much truer could a cliche be? You strut down the street, breathing confidence in with every step. In the clarity of hindsight, you realize that the relationship was doomed from the beginning. In fact, at the heart of it, Shawn never deserved you. You were meant for someone much more? well, more worthy. Someone like KC. You imagine Shawn seeing the two of you together now, laughing and enjoying yourselves; that icy complexion growing as green as sour grapes with envy. True, KC's not perfect, but by God you'll show your old lover how foolish it was to leave you and how happy you can be now that the affair is over. Determination strides forward, brushing aside lesser emotions. That old bravado kicks in. You'll charm KC if it's the last thing you do and you'll be happy if it kills you. A tiny voice inside points out that you're not competing with Shawn, that it really is over for good, but the voice is easily ignored. You simply hate to lose. You approach the low gate of KC's little garden. You've got good looks, intelligence, and sex appeal in your hand, trump cards in this old game. All you have to do is play it right.

So why, you ask yourself, are you doing it again? And with so much less a prize. Oh, sure, you'd wow KC's friends, but it'd almost be an embarrassment to introduce so intrinsically dull a person to your friends as your new lover, especially after Shawn. They'd see it as an act of desperation, and you will not allow that. You aren't desperate. Defiantly, you turn down a side alley and walk away from Beal Street.

Unsure but willing, you screw your courage to the sticking place, throw open the gate and stride through the garden to the door. Without hesitation, you reach up and bang the sturdy brass knocker. Then silence. Not the creak of footsteps on the stairs, not the shuffle of feet on the carpet. Just silence. You wait, though patience has never been one of the virtues you've prided yourself on. Finally, you knock again, harder. This time you get results. Almost instantly the door swings open and KC stands in the hall, but there is little resemblance between this creature and the person you took to dinner. The clear blue eyes are now swollen and red with tears and volcanic rage disfigures the supple lips, shouting furiously at you.

"I told you to get out, asshole. If you don't I'm going–" The tirade stops as quickly as it started. The eyes narrow. "Oh, it's you," KC says at last, calmer, but still hardly hospitable. "Listen, I just got... I've not had the best night. I'd like to be alone right now. I'm sorry. I'll try and call some time." And the door is shut. You didn't even have time to open your mouth. Stunned and confused, completely ignorant of what must have happened before your arrival, you stumble back through the garden and around the corner onto the next street. You stiffen your chin and walk down the avenue.

Bitter realization hits your first. What if you don't play it right? Doubt floods your limbs and you feel your body grow heavy with its weight. You could completely spoil this chance if you just barge in there, guns blazing. No, this sort of conquest requires strategy and planning. Casanova and Napoleon had more in common than either was aware of. You turn the corner and head down the next avenue, away from Beal Street. You'll give this proper consideration, probably buy some flowers, and come back when the time right. No need to push it. Pace yourself.

The little, invaluable self-deceptions we allow ourselves. Sometimes they're the only things that make life bearable. Tonight, for example, you're taking a walk on Beal Street beneath a cloudless summer sky. Not surprising; you walk down the hill through this neighborhood almost every night to enjoy the warm twilight. You've walked down this street, and dozens identical to it, countless times, reveling in the little details, taking an academic pleasure in noting how the whole architecture of the street seems to change to reflect your mood. The placement of a single beam of fading sunlight or the calibrated timing of a child's laugh, the most random of events, combine like a catalyst with your emotions such that the static street never appears quite the same. It is therefore completely plausible, you tell yourself repeatedly, that this is just another evening jaunt, that there's no special reason why you turned down this tiny lane rather than the next one. The fact that KC, the unjustly beautiful young person who you took to dinner last week, lives in the cozy bungalow just down the street is a mere coincidence, nothing more.

There's a low hedge growing next to the sidewalk. It's not special in any sense, in the day you would see nothing more than a clump of dry, needly branches and leaves and a few pale, not quite withered flowers. Twilight however is a fairy godmother, and the alchemical blend of the last beams of golden sun and the first glow of the silvery moon transform the dowdy bush into something royal. The yellow flowers shimmer like platinum in the blue light of the evening and the dry leaves form themselves into a delicate filigree of jade and shadows. Surely this is all you really need in life, this natural beauty that presents itself around you in full abundance. Nature offers all freely, there is no need to impress or woo. Why not become like Thoreau, give up the labyrinthine traps of human relationships and study the calm seclusion of nature? You have always been the solitary type, the cool intellectual. Perhaps it would be best, though you are young yet, to simply embrace that intellectualism, rather than degrading it by chasing after some non-existent Grail of a relationship. Accept your one date as enough and move on. Your experience with Shawn didn't work out; why pursue another failure with KC?

Ah, Shawn. Funny that the memory should return now. That chapter in your life is closed, over, finished completely. It had been made very, very clear to you in that phone call last May that your then-lover was moving on with life and that it would be for the best if you moved on too. The stunning accuracy and speed with which the bond between you was severed, a bond you assumed to be forged of steel and platinum, left you in physical shock. You had read somewhere that people can actually die from shock, even if it is caused by a superficial wound. You are certain that some form of death did indeed accompany that loss. Yes, funny that the memory should return now, as you approach KC's house. Funny ironic, but not funny surprising. Thoughts of Shawn have ceased to surprise you at all, given the regularity with which they materialize in your mind. Pining, you think it's called, though haunting would be a more apt phrase, for at every turn you are sure you see the specter of your sensuous, regal ex-lover. Of course, you never admit the longing to yourself. Again, it's the tiny self-deceptions which make life bearable.

The thought calms you and you turn away from KC's house and Beal Street, heading down a little alley overgrown with gray-green ferns. You are in control of your own life. This silent, uncompromising beauty is all the companionship you really need. Smiling, and not even aware of your loneliness, you amble down the alley into the sunset.

But all that is over, in as much as anything is ever over. Shawn is gone, and now who do you have? Nobody, that's who. You walk down the street beneath the stained-glass awning of leaves and turn the phrase over and over on your tongue. Nobody, that's who. And for some reason, it doesn't sound so bad. You think of Shawn and all the trouble that caused (though you have to admit the good times were very, very good) and wonder if you want to face all that again. Why voluntarily subject yourself to that sort of turmoil? Perhaps you are just hungry out of habit, seeking new companionship in place of the old simply because that's what is expected of you. The more you consider it, the more reasonable it becomes, the easier to believe that you aren't just rationalizing your reclusiveness, making excuses for being anti-social. You've always been fine company for yourself; it's ridiculous to believe that, because society tells you to, you should go out of your way to impress some insignificant acquaintance just so you have someone new to talk to. You square your shoulders and breathe deeply into your chest, drawing a sort of strength from the far off taste of woodsmoke in the air. You don't need anyone else; you are confident and happy on your own. It is therefore with some surprise that you find you have involuntarily stopped in front of KC's little house.

As you run this through your mind, you become aware of a certain masochism you live with. You are aware that relationships lead only to loss and heartache, yet here you are, pursuing another one. Will you never learn? Your pace slows and you resolutely turn around. Those who do not learn from the past are condemned to repeat it. At least you've learned your lesson. Confident at last, you turn down a narrow alley and head away from Beal Street.

Unsure but willing, you screw your courage to the sticking place, throw open the gate and stride through the garden to the door. Without hesitation, you reach up and bang the sturdy brass knocker. Then silence. Not the creak of footsteps on the stairs, not the shuffle of feet on the carpet. Just silence. You wait, though patience has never been one of the virtues you've prided yourself on. Finally, you knock again, harder. This time you get results. Almost instantly the door swings open and KC stands in the hall, but there is little resemblance between this creature and the person you took to dinner. The clear blue eyes are now swollen and red with tears and volcanic rage disfigures the supple lips, shouting furiously at you.

"I told you to get out, asshole. If you don't I'm going–" The tirade stops as quickly as it started. The eyes narrow. "Oh, it's you," KC says at last, calmer, but still hardly hospitable. "Listen, I just got... I've not had the best night. I'd like to be alone right now. I'm sorry. I'll try and call some time." And the door is shut. You didn't even have time to open your mouth. Stunned and confused, completely ignorant of what must have happened before your arrival, you stumble back through the garden and around the corner onto the next street. You stiffen your chin and walk down the avenue.

You run your gaze over the all too quaint house, pause for a few moments, then start walking again. Nobody, that's who. You turn the corner and head down the avenue, away from Beal Street, soaking in the jeweled light of the city below you in the valley. As you stride into the shadows it is almost possible to believe what you tell yourself. You don't need anyone. You have your books and your writing and your long, solitary walks. What more perfect companionship is there?